


wanna eat each other into nothing

by scribacchina



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: ABO AU, Lactation Kink, M/M, Omega Credence, a bit of angst, alpha graves, this is the weirdest shit ive ever written
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-26
Updated: 2017-11-26
Packaged: 2019-02-07 04:36:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12833418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scribacchina/pseuds/scribacchina
Summary: Mr Graves asks Credence to come live with him. Credence, for lack of a better option, accepts.They both get more than what they bargained for.





	wanna eat each other into nothing

**Author's Note:**

> I DID IT I WROTE THE SMUTS-- well, not really, but..eh. Shoutout to angryzilla and wanderinglynx for supporting me lol y'all are great. 
> 
> If you enjoy this ....thing, consider leaving a comment to let me know!

Credence looks at his reflection in the mirror. He winces. He presses one hand on the cool surface. Who is this? No. _What_. What is this thing? Credence knows that it isn’t about what he wants. He has absolutely no say in the matter—his body has already made the decision for him.

It is now working on its own. He is resigned to it; what else is there to do?

 

Moving in with Mr Graves had been his first big mistake. No, actually—ignoring all the red flags furiously flapping in his face had been. Pretending not to notice. Acting dumb, feeling dumber. _If I can ignore it for long enough_ , he had thought, _it will be as if nothing ever happened_.

Mr Graves had begged him to stay. The second big mistake had been listening to him; it was all elaborate words- all meaningless to Credence, nonsensical. Credence couldn’t fathom why he’d go to such lengths to keep him close. Anyway—

He’d said yes. _Of course, Mr Graves. Where else would I go, Mr Graves?_

Credence didn’t know why he kept using that name. The man he remembered and the one he now shared a house with – a beautiful, spacious Estate, complete with labyrinth and moving statues and rose bushes – were two completely different people.

This Mr Graves looked like a mad man. He had deep, deep shadows under his eyes, and sunken cheeks. His hands trembled, constantly, his teeth always set in a ferocious snarl. He wandered around the house like a hungry beast– too late, Credence realized why Mr Scamander was so wary of letting him stay there.

The whole place had absorbed its owner’s personality; everything from the antique furniture to the richly painted walls smelled of danger, and things you do not go near to, if you are interested in keep living your life. Credence treaded carefully, didn’t linger in the endless corridors and dimly lit rooms. Still.

He couldn’t picture living anywhere else—much less in a _suite case_.

And so, he’d politely declined Mr Scamander’s offer to travel the world together. He had thought that living with one beast, was going to be preferable to living surrounded by beasts.

He hadn’t considered that Mr Scamander’s animals were tamed. No one had ever tamed Percival Graves.

Mr Graves never wore the infamous coat again. He wrapped himself in dark suits that couldn’t hold a candle to his previous signature outfit, but Credence kept his considerations to himself. The man wouldn’t care, he’d figured. Or, he would get angry at him, and then perhaps he’d hit Credence and then—

 

He had meant it, when he’d said he didn’t want to control _It_ anymore. Didn’t matter that he hadn’t said it to the _Real_ Mr Graves- he had meant it. He was going to keep true to his promises.

So. Credence did not mention the coat. What did it matter, anyway? It was just a coat. Not the vessel his mind conjured it to be: a simple piece of clothing, unimportant, frivolous and easily replaceable.

Credence had sneaked up on him one night, awoken by loud cursing and disturbing noises: he’d seen him standing in front of the fireplace, tucking a stray hem of cloth through the flames. As fast and quietly as he’d come, he had tip-toed back to his bedroom.

He hadn’t slept for hours, that night, tossing and turning beneath the silk of the bed-sheets—and when he fell asleep at last, at dawn, out of pure exhaustion, he wished he could have woken up. Insomnia was far better than the secluded, hellish space of his subconscious.

In his nightmares, he’d been the one being devoured by fire. It crackled all around him, burning his skin – cleansing him– while Mr Graves stood and watched, enthralled. The dreams had lasted for about a month.

 

No, this Mr Graves had nothing in common with the polished, elegant gentleman Credence used to meet in dark alleys and shady pubs, but for a vague resemblance and the same, predatory way they held themselves.

They intimidated him both, the one haunting his memories and the one devouring his dinner at the opposite end of a ridiculously long table.

Credence couldn’t bear to look at him in the eyes, even as the older man tried to drag him into absurd conversations about his daily activities. Credence did nothing but lounge in his bedroom, vaguely aware of time going by, but unsure about the exact count of it; he was fairly sure it was October.

But Mr Graves would chew relentlessly on a mouthful of whatever fancy food was placed on his plate and stare, unwavering gaze fixated on Credence at every moment.

He couldn’t possibly think Credence had other interests besides, well, not ending up in some kind of magical prison.

 

Once, after the man had drunk himself senseless and collapsed on the velvety armchair of the living room, Credence had kneeled at his side and tried to convince him to abandon his ramblings together with the bottle of liquor. _It’s late, Mr Graves_ , he’d whispered.

Mr Graves had sighed. He had looked very old and ageless at the same time, all of a sudden. His eyes had an exhaustion to them that made Credence’s bones tingle.

_Credence_ , he’d murmured, studying the intricate patterns on the ceiling, _Do you hate me?_

Credence had backed away, very slowly. Mr Graves hadn’t called after him, nor followed him in his escape. He’d ran to his chambers and cried himself to sleep over his own inability to answer a question that was honestly so easy.

“I don’t hate you,” he’d confessed, to the silence of his room, “I fear you.”

The incident hadn’t been discussed the next morning, nor the following days-- with the amount of alcohol the man had ingested, Credence doubted he even remembered it ever happening.

Credence didn’t know this Mr Graves. Then again, had he ever?

 

The pains had started a week after Credence had been called to make his deposition in front of a whole court of witches and wizards, Madam President included.

Mr Graves had been called, too; him and Ms Goldstein had spent good part of an hour trying to convince Credence that no, he wasn’t going to be executed as long as he told the truth.

They’d asked all sorts of questions, ranging from his name to when he’d met Mr Graves, and why he’d approached him, and if he told him about things, _bad_ things about a very _bad_ wizard named Grindelwald.

They spoke to him as if he was a kid, and Credence wasn’t sure if it was out of genuine concern or terror. He knew, behind those masterfully constructed facades, they were trembling in their seats, like little children. They were thinking of the expanse of the damage he could do to their idiotic Congress, had he felt like it.

Credence knew what they were afraid of—it was that black fire hid beneath his skin, roaring and tossing and turning. It scared him, too, but no one noticed that. No one cared enough to. Of course, nobody wanted to know how the monster felt like.

Who would have believed that he was the villain of the story? Credence himself hadn’t been aware of it; and well, wasn’t that a perfectly mastered evil plan? He supposed he should have been proud of himself, to an extent. Apparently, he’d succeeded in fooling everyone: even this Mr Grindelwald, whom Congress was so interested in.

He had started to love the black fire inside of him. Most of the good things that made up his current life had come from it.

If only he hadn’t listened to _It_ , ignored _It_ , repressed _It_ as he’d done over the course of nineteen years—he wondered, would his life had changed quite as drastically? If he’d listened to Mr Gra—Grindelwald instead, gone with him. Would he now be on a quest to conquer both the magical and non-magical world?

There were days, where he didn’t love _It_ as much. The black fire had killed Ma and Chastity, which was a blessing. _It_ had also  sent Modesty miles away—left him alone in an unknown, hostile world. It was a disease, it was a disgrace, it was incurable—

It was _him_. A part of his very soul, lodged so deeply into his being there was no telling them apart. _Obscurus_ , they said. He wondered if it wasn’t simply another synonym for _Credence Barebone_ —like _freak_ , or _stupid-god-forgotten-boy_.

Or— _miracle_.

 

His shoulders ached. His arms, too. But the worst of it was his chest. Sore and tight, and heated. Credence had took to wear his shirt with the collar unfastened, repeatedly blowing or swatting at his skin. It was red and damp, and it burned like hell.

The strange, little creature Mr Graves had called a house elf brought him oils and potions to alleviate the feeling—but they were all useless.

In the end, he was resigned to taking cold baths that left him with shivering fits and a bad case of blocked nose.

He would submerge until his eyelashes brushed the water, alternatively massaging and clawing at his muscles.

Mr Graves had observed him coughing his lungs out, without uttering a single word. Credence acknowledged it as a sign of annoyance, and retired to his chambers for the rest of the week.

He’d been feverish, wrapping wet towels around his chest in a desperate attempt to soothe the pain.

 

Credence remembers their first night. He might just remember that night for the rest of his days.

The pains had wrung every ounce of strength out of him, and three hours in the bathtub hadn’t accomplished anything. He’d hastily grabbed a blouse from the large closet and flung himself to bed. He had been exhausted, on the verge of sleep, head getting heavier and heavier by the minute.

He felt himself sinking under; slowly drowning in the inky sea of his exasperated mind.

The sharp noise of the door lock clicking had him snapping out of his haze with a startle. His eyes remained shut, a yelp escaping his lips.

He drew his knees up, pressed them to his chest. Made himself smaller. He hiked the sheets to his chin and tapped his fingers there to stop its wobbling.

Then, there was the creaking of the door swinging open, and footstep entering his bedroom. The mattress dipped under a foreign weight, right behind him. A cautious hand explored the expanse of his back, pressing through the blankets. He had been too scared to react: behind the darkness of his eyelids, he imagined the devil itself, come to drag him down to hell.

Or, even more terrifying, his mother- sneering down at him with her dead eyes.

But no, he reasoned, Mary Lou had never touched him in such a way. The knuckles caressing the dip of his lower back were far too gentle to be his mother’s.

He bit the inside of his cheek to keep himself from screaming, when another hand appeared and hooked around his form. Credence was manhandled until he laid flat on the bed, facing up.

When he finally managed to pry his eyes open, he saw Mr Graves hunched over him.

He had already unfastened the top three buttons of his nightgown and was furiously working through the fourth.

“I’m so– sso sorry–”

Mr Graves spoke in a low rumble, concentrated on the task of removing each button from its placket. Credence observed, silent; his mind, that had been conjuring all kinds of demons, now faced a far more realistic threat. And still, nothing but one sound resonated inside his head: a quiet, surprised, “ _oh_ ”.

Oh. That’s it. _That’s it_.

“I can smell it on you–” he continued, panting.

His tongue hung just past his lower lip, drool dripping down his chin and getting caught in the stubble there. He reminded Credence of the hungry dogs that came whining to the chapel, bellies empty and tails wagging. Modesty always saved some of her ration for them.

“—so sweet.”

Credence took a big breath, and slowly raised one hand. Some of those dogs had been owned, before finding themselves on the streets. They accepted a caress, and a praise, and soft hands carding through their dirty fur. Some of them.

Mr Graves grasped his wrist and pinned it against the pillow, growling. There was a light in his dilated pupils that urged Credence to make himself minuscule, invisible.

Most of those dogs were born without a home. They grew up, knowing nothing about affectionate touches, or the companionship of a human. They bared their sharp fangs and barked when you tried to approach them; which Modesty, smart kid that she was, never did.

He had never been as smart. There were scars all over his body to prove that.

Credence let out a short cry at the exaggerated amount of pressure being applied to his bones.

“p– ple– ase-” he stammered, brain finally catching up with the current course of events. His heart hammered between his ribs, like a trapped bird.

Mr Graves hesitated, and ultimately loosened his grip– just a tad. There: another set of bruises for his collection.

Credence sobbed as the man grew impatient with a particularly stubborn button and simply decided to tear the whole thing off. The fabric ripped easily, leaving the expanse of his chest completely exposed: from the stark lines of his collarbones to the planes of his belly.

They both stared at Credence’s bare torso. Mr Graves cupped his pecs with large, shaking palms. They felt rough and impossibly warm, and Credence’s eyes begun to water.

The things those hands could do. He was very much aware of them. Big and calloused by years of hard work. Strong hands. Gentle, at times- cruel, if needed.

Before he could beg some more, there were heavy thumbs stroking over his nipples.

He hissed. A faint sound, stumbling past his clenched teeth. His skin was raw, and sensitive, and Mr Graves’ nails pressed down on it meanly. The pads of his fingers traced the circles of his areolas, lightly, lightly and then hard.

A series of hiccups and whines filled the room, replacing the air. No more oxygen— but plenty of those breathy, little noises. Mr Graves seemed to breathe on them, feeding off of them.

Credence looked up at the older man’s face- his jaw slack in wonder, nostrils flaring. He lowered his face and Credence resulted to closing his eyes once again. He waited for the pain to come, with resignation set in the bottom of his stomach.

Puffs of breath dampened his skin. Something wet and hot wrapped around his right nipple and immediately began sucking– Credence gasped loudly, arching into Mr Graves’ mouth. The shock was so intense. It was a completely new sensation. Indescribable.

Jolts of electricity shook him to the core. His toes curled, legs straining at each side of Mr Grave’s form. The ache subsided, replaced by a glowing heat.

Credence’s breath was stuck somewhere between his lungs and his throat, and refused to come out. Credence’s free hand carded through Mr Graves’ short hair. It stayed there, frozen, unsure on what to do. Then, because of a particularly powerful suction, Credence’s hand tightened, ruffling Mr Graves’ neatly combed hairstyle.

He tried to press him closer. He wanted that feeling to be embedded in his very heart. He wanted Mr Graves to eat him alive.

The man didn’t seem to care. He kept sucking the nub, occasionally sweeping a hint of teeth over it. His mouth was scorching hot, sealed around him in such an intimate way.

 

Credence recalled the memory of a young woman, who Ma had mercifully took in, when Credence was still a kid.

She had been holding a bundle of rags close to her, cradling it and occasionally talking to it. Credence had asked what the thing was, and Ma had scoffed.

“A creature of God,” she’d answered, noncommittally.

Though aware how grave of a sin curiosity was, Credence couldn’t help to peer at the tiny bundle when he thought no one was looking. It made sounds, the strange thing. It cried.

One day, the young woman beckoned him to her bed. She had a nice smile and took Credence’s hand. She guided it to a stray hem of the bag and encouraged him to pull on it. Credence obeyed, and slowly revealed the scrunched up expression of a newborn child.

He’d gasped. The infant squinted up at him and yawned. The woman had giggled and told him its name. Credence forced himself to, but couldn’t recollect neither the mother’s or the baby’s.

What he did remember, and quite vividly at that, was the shrill, high-pitched scream it had made, immediately after being awaken. The woman had shushed it and rocked it back and forth, before loosening her dress.

Credence had stared, confused, as she bared her right breasts. She’d looked back at him, with something akin to discomfort, but relaxed upon realizing he had no ill intent. She had raised its small head, until it was close enough to latch on her swollen nipple.

She sighed, and explained to Credence that the baby needed to be fed regularly.

And no, it couldn’t eat normal food like the rest of them, its teeth had yet to develop. Yes, it did hurt a bit. No, it wasn’t cow milk it was drinking.

 

Credence opened his eyes and watched as Mr Graves pulled and nibbled at him. His heavy brow drew low on his own sealed eyes, concentrating.

Mr Graves was very much not a nursling. However. With the way he was gnawing at his nipples, grunting and huffing, hunger turning him into an unreasonable being, devoid of complex thinking, stripped to basic instincts— he wasn’t that different from a hungry child.

Unfortunately, Credence had no nourishment to offer him. Mr Graves was wasting his time. He’d have had more use for a common whore.

The thought sent a pang of pain ringing through his fogged mind: not physical as the ache of his chest, but painful all the same.

Ah, but that was the heart of the matter, wasn’t it? This whole charade, from refusing Mr Scamander’s help to agreeing to stay with Mr Graves. It had been for one specific reason. He could keep telling himself that, surely, the safest place for him with scary Mr Grindelwald on the loose, was by the side of an important and respected member of the government—

Excuses, excuses. Ma always said he was very good at making them. He hadn’t understood the true meaning of her words until that moment.

He’d been chasing after the promise of an ideal life that had gotten him into this mess in the first place. He had thrown away all pretence of common sense, for this man. Everything he’d ever known. And he didn’t even know him, not really.

Credence moaned. He wanted to cry; it all felt too good to. The pleasure, it battled with his inner sufferings. He was being torn apart from the inside.

It felt like ages, trapped in the tangle of his own considerations - probably mere minutes, when Credence felt something tickle out his abused nip. It wasn’t a strong feeling like the ones he’d experienced earlier that evening, it was faint and feeble and weak. At first.

And it couldn’t be a construct of his imagination, either, because an instant later he heard Mr Graves groan deep in his throat– and double his efforts.

Suddenly there was a river, flooding out of Credence.

He howled, and kicked his legs up. His nails plunged in Mr Graves’ scalp, hard enough to draw blood. In response, Mr Graves bit down on the nub, holding it with his incisive and flicking it with the tip of his tongue.

The aching was quickly reduced to a mildly annoying itch. Mr Graves was apparently sucking the tension out of Credence’s body, swallowing each wave of it, with enthusiasm and passion and ardour.

Credence shifted, noticing the embarrassing reaction in his lower areas. Arousal pooled in his guts. He hardened against the soft fabric of the blankets, slick and sweat mixing, moistening the back of his undergarments until they stuck to him like a second skin.

“Mr. Graves–” he pleaded, voice breaking.

His left hand was still planted on the man’s head. His fingers moved on their own accord, scratching the short, coarse hair. Mr Graves took it as an encouragement. He pinched Credence’s left nipple between thumb and index, quickly rolling it into stiffness– there was a squelching sound and wetness poured out of it, similarly to its twin.

It was as if Mr Graves had opened a faucet. Credence cracked open one eye, and gazed as a round, pearly-white drop grow from the tip of his nipple. He huffed out a distressed whine. The drop trembled, insecure for a second. Then, gracefully, it shrunk on itself and slipped off—disappeared in the creases of his ribs.

He pulled on Mr Graves’ head, felt his lips pucker around his flesh one last time before letting go – the air was suddenly unbearably cold, scraping his skin with freezing needles – he let Credence direct him towards the left nipple.

He immediately latched on, humming. Credence patted the back of his head, urging him on.

 

By the time the alpha had drained every bead of milk out of him, Credence had come three times.

His clothes were soaked. He felt wet in places he didn’t know could get wet. He’d saw stars shine bright in front of him, their light pulsing and twisting. He was content. It was a strange feeling that curled in the pit of his stomach and settled nicely, filling him up from the inside.

Mr Graves flopped down beside him and dragged him flat on his lap. Credence didn’t protest; he didn’t think he could if he wanted to, not with how mellow he felt.

The older man draped himself against his back, hips pistoning forward, once, twice, _thrice_ – he grunted, guttural, and– and spilled all over Credence’s beyond ruined pyjamas.

They laid there, panting, in the dark. Alone together.

They fell asleep immediately: a heap of tangled limbs, breaths mingling, heartbeats synchronized in the same, relaxed rhythm. Quietened at last, after all that time consumed running after each other.

Credence woke up the next morning to Mr Graves nosing at the modest mounds of his breasts. By the way his eyelids were drooping, it was likely he’d just woke up, too. Credence rolled his shoulders tentatively and, sure enough, there it was; the ache that set his skin on fire, familiar in an instinctual, primitive way.

 

That was the first time. The very first time.

Credence looks at his reflection in the mirror. There’s a roundness to his chest that shouldn’t be there. Or maybe it should. The doctor said it was completely normal. If anything, it showed he was a young, healthy omega in his prime.

How swell. What a _lucky_ boy he was.


End file.
